Recycling Bits
by MisterMitty
Summary: Short stuff waiting in folders.
1. Chapter 1

**A Dish Served Cold**

 _In Shane's defense, Oliver did start it._

 _More or less._

 _He claimed it was an accident but she wasn't convinced by his protestation. Although his denial sounded sincere, the slight tweaking at the corner of his mouth cast a shadow of doubt over his words and suggested guilt. Worse, the twinkle in his eye suggested something set apart from innocent. After all, the moment of affliction was right there in the road in front of them and she was sure they had both seen it. Was it deliberate?_

 _In Oliver's defense, the result of the moment of affliction was humorous and the tweaking of his mouth a natural reaction. He had resisted the smile for her sake, but his feeling of mirth had been exposed even though it offered no proof of culpability._

 _So, the truth of what would be known as the pot-hole incident for the rest of eternity would forever be known but never proven._

 **Wednesday night** had been added to their list of weekly date nights, making a total of three not counting when they cooked for each other. Truth be told, Oliver cooked, Shane thawed and heated, but they always enjoyed each other. This Wednesday was a semi-special occasion as Papa Joe was in town and they would join him at Ester's, a very comfortable upscale restaurant with a spectacular night view of downtown Denver.

 **Wednesday** had been a long day, with multiple bins of lost, misdirected, and missing postage refugees of the Postal System left to sit waiting anxiously for the Postables to serve redemption. In her defense, Shane was tired and her feet hurt. Oliver had been helping Norman and Rita all afternoon and was, in his expressed opinion, disheveled. Disheveled is defined as a Windsor knot that had become a slack and drooping loop and a collar that was unbuttoned. Shane had stopped for a break and was sitting at her floating work station rubbing one of her feet when Oliver stopped in front of her, hands on hips, and had proclaimed, "I am not happy."

"So then which one of the seven are you?" Shane had asked. She would later deny that she made the comment out of frustration.

It was, to borrow a word from contemporary comedy, a burn and Oliver's gasp was audible. The net result being that everything from that point on may or may not have been a fight. Which brings us back to Wednesday night.

 **Oliver was driving** , humming softly to himself, relaxing while the FM offered Jordan Feliz – The River. Shane was fastidiously reapplying her lipstick, a wonderful shade called Sassy Mauve which blended beautifully with her skin tones and blonde hair. For the record, the suspension on a Jaguar is a marvel of engineering that will absorb sudden shocks and gently spread them around the entire frame of the car to minimize abrupt inertial changes in direction. But it was a large pot-hole so a certain degree of up-thrust came from the street, up through the seat and into Shane's hand.

Half of her upper lip was perfect. But at the center of her mouth that changed into a vertical line of Sassy Mauve that crossed one nostril, turned at the bridge of her nose and made a perfect half circle under her right eye until it touched the brow. What followed was the aforementioned protestations of innocence and that pesky tweaking at the corner of Oliver's mouth.

Shane did what she could with tissue but made a bee-line for the Ladies Room as soon as they reached Ester's. Oliver found his father waiting for them and sat, no longer hiding the smile but enjoying the humour openly. By the time Shane reached the table and Oliver politely pulled her chair for her, Papa Joe and Oliver were both trying to hide smiles. Shane had already found the humor in the situation, but the subtle mockery was mildly poignant. Also a bit irritating.

When Papa Joe asked about work, Oliver laughed, trying to lighten the mood and told his dad that Shane had referred to him as one of Snow White's Seven. Shane laughed, releasing tension. When she got up a few minutes later to make another run for the Powder Room, she stopped and kissed Oliver's cheek. Papa Joe smiled at the affection, Oliver smiled at the affection, then Shane picked a mushroom out of Oliver's salad and stuffed the stem into his ear.

"You are such a fungi," she said, giving him another kiss.

When Papa Joe laughed, wine came out his nose.


	2. Chapter 2

_The overstuffed chair in Oliver's study was a good place to sit, to steeple ones fingers in front of one's nose and think of oneself in the third person. As arrogant as that sounds, it is actually very humbling if one had been written by one's creator to be emotionally disadvantaged. The down side, if taken to extreme it leads to schizophrenia. The up side did offer the advantage of clarity when one was faced with a troubling yet stimulating dichotomy. Oliver O'Toole's dichotomy was blonde, had laughing eyes, and the unnerving ability to erase years of studious discipline and leave him gasping like a fool. It had been proven - there were witnesses - that when Shane McInerney was around, Denver had a new village idiot. Mr. O'Toole had actually been seen smiling at work._

 _Scandalous._

"He is flabbergasted again," MIND said, wringing hands together with confusion. HE was standing in the gloom behind Oliver's eyes and watching what the man did.

"Flabbergasted? Really?" a badly bruised EGO chuffed from somewhere behind MIND.

"Yes," MIND said. "Flabbergasted, verb, past tense. Synonyms are astonish, dumbfound, befuddle."

"Now I can see befuddle, for sure. She certainly does that to him of late."

"No," ID added quietly from the shadows. "The word is 'twitter-patted', the magical incantation of an animated rabbit. He is twitter-patted by her."

EGO smiled and nodded. MIND rubbed his jaw, thinking about the word.

"He is picking up the remote to the stereo," EGO warned. "It's to be Scheherazade. You all know what that means, the fourth is going to show up. I'm telling you, SHE will walk in here like SHE owns the place."

"Portent of doom," ID said from the deeper shadows behind Oliver O'Toole's eyes. OF the four, ID was the one most likely to go over-the-top on the drama scale and the other two had actually referred to HIM as 'queen' on more than one occassion. Music filled the soul of Oliver O'Toole, the passionate strains of Scheherazade. ID closed his eyes and released and exaggerated sigh. "SHE is the personification of all things that go bump in the night. Gives me the willys for sure."

"Willys? Flutters, wobbles, why not just say she frightens you."

"Palpitations is a good word," MIND offered without turning. "And just so YOU know, I think SHE inspires."

"Did I hear my middle name?" MUSE asked as she walked up behind MIND, her perfume a cloying temptation that reached for his nostrils like a living thing. She stood close enough that she was touching his arm. Barely. Tantalizingly. Wonderfully. MIND shivered as a wave of the willys washed over him.

Unlike the other three parts of Oliver's emotional matrix, MUSE was female, blonde, had blue eyes, and looked not surprisingly like Shane McInerney. SHE was also the newest addition to said matrix.

'It's MIND's fault," EGO said. "HE brought HER in the day he met HER at the coffee stand and SHE's never left. SHE captivated him with a brilliant mind and those laughing eyes. Very quiet at first, I think more of a curiosity than inspiration."

"I didn't do it intentionally," MIND said. "But YOU have to admit SHE has grown on all of us."

"I'm calling obsession," EGO stated flatly.

"Am I an obsession?" MUSE asked, running one hand across the back of EGO's neck. EGO trembled for a moment and then sat down, humming a note one octave below middle "C" while flipping his index finger rapidly between his lips to make a musical motorboat. MUSE twisted HER lips at one corner of HER mouth the same way that the McInerney person did.

"Great," ID said. "Now EGO is befuddled and we've lost the engine that drives this emotional disaster."

"It's not obsession," MIND said.

"It's not a disaster," EGO added with a smile at MUSE.

"No, YOU wouldn't use a word like 'disaster'. YOU would say something very Jane Austen, like smitten," ID replied. "Oh, Oliver O'Toole is smitten."

"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun." MIND quoted.

"Stop with the Austen already."

"I have found the one whom my soul loves."

"And now with the Bible?"

MIND leaned close to MUSE and whispered for HER ear only. "You have captured my heart, my treasure, my bride. You hold it hostage with one glance of your eyes, with a single jewel of your necklace."

MUSE turned with a smile. EGO was still babbling to himself on the floor, drooling. She walked to ID.

"Why do you fear me?"

ID blushed a deep scarlet and MIND gasped audibly in the space between Oliver O'Toole's ears. Such a thing had never happened before.

"I know you're not going to surrender and babble like EGO," SHE cooed. "Too strong, and I know why you fear me." SHE stepped closer and ID shrank back. MUSE nodded. "This," SHE said, pointing the deep, gaping wound ID carried across his body. "This is why you fear, why you pull away. This is why you seed so much confusion into MIND. YOU steal HIS words and tie HIS tongue. Don't YOU know that a touch from love will heal you all? That love is your destiny? Do you know why MIND brought ME in here the day we met at the coffee cart? And why HE isn't afraid? Because HE knows what YOU choose to ignore. God is first and foremost love, and "He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds." As much as all the egos and ids in the world try, that cannot alter the words that God has spoken."

MUSE smiled, recognizing the longing on ID's face, the face of the subconscious starving for love. "Just give it time, fearful one," she said softly. "YOU already know the truth even if YOU won't admit it in front of them."

"Ooh," MIND said suddenly. "He's moving."

MUSE moved quickly to his side, EGO stopped drooling and got to his feet, eager to see what the body of Oliver O'Toole was going to do. ID quietly stepped backward, further into the shadows, hiding.

MUSE started clapping her hands with glee. "He's going to the phone. He's calling her to chit chat."

"Don't you mean converse?" MIND asked with a smile.

 _Oliver dialed Shane's number and waited while she answered. "Hello Shane? Nothing. I just – just wanted to hear your voice."_


	3. Chapter 3

**Poker Night |**

Rita's eyes smoldered beneath the green Casino Visor she wore, a stormy look that warned of intense concentration and imminent violence. She squinted, eyes darting back and forth from the pile of chips in front of her to the four face up cards in front of Papa Joe. As dealer, he would turn one more, but so far had not been of any help for her at all. At best, she could end up with three of a kind and that wasn't going to win, not for this hand. "Baby needs a new pair of shoes," she almost shouted as Joe flipped the river. The brunette sagged into her chair. Junk. It was all junk and her best was now a weak pair which she knew that both Shane and Oliver had already beaten.

"Baby?" Norman gasped. "What baby?"

"Relax Norman," Joe said. "It's an idiom specific to poker. There is no baby."

"Junk," Rita said and folded, dropping her cards in the center of the table.

"Say Joe," Ramon said. "What the difference between a poker player and a dog tied up in the sun?"

Joe laughed and raised his glass to their host. "Well, eventually the dog will quit whining and Rita won't."

"I will whine about these cards all night," Rita chuffed, eyes still smoldering.

Oliver was studying Shane's face carefully, what little he could see of it. She was holding her two hole cards high and close, with only her eyes visible above their tops. Those eyes snapped up suddenly and locked with his. An alluring sparkle of lightning lit those sapphire pools and for a moment he didn't think he would be able to breathe again. What those eyes were telling him was not a bluff and had nothing to do with Texas Hold 'Em. His own poker face melted instantly and she laughed when she saw it. She owned him and knew it, then pounced like a cat on a mouse. "Call."

"Hey," Rita said gruffly. "You want to play cards, play cards. You want to flirt, go on a date." It was the third hand in a row that she had lost and the Frontier Duchess did not like to lose. When they had started these little once a week games, Rita had ruled the table. But Norman, Ramon, Oliver and Joe had been studying her carefully. Rita was not without her wiles but the four had been learning them all.

"Oliver and Shane were the only remaining players in the hand and both flipped their hole cards at the same time. Oliver's premonition had been correct, not only did she beat him, the two cards she flipped had won the pot from the deal. The rest of the table had never had a chance. Laughing, Shane reached with both hands to rake chips into her corner.

"Well, you know what they say, son?" Joe winked. "Unlucky at cards - ." Oliver laughed, Shane picked up a white chip and tossed it to Joe. "That's a dollar chip," he said. "I only gave you a two cent opinion."

"Yeah, but it was a great opinion."

"Ramon? Can you break a hundred?" Rita called out.

"Be careful Miss Rita. Texas Hold 'Em has the only river that can drown you more than once."

Joe found that funny and laughed. "There are two basic rules for winning at poker," he said. "The first one is never tell anyone anything."

Silence settled over the table as the others sat waiting for the rest. "What's the second one?" Norman finally asked.

"What second one?" Joe replied, tossing ante into the pool.

The group groaned as Oliver shuffled the cards and then set the deck in front of his dad. "I trust you son," Joe said. "But this is poker," then cut the cards. Oliver dealt two around to the other players, then turned three cards face up in front of himself.

Rita made a very small noise and raised one eyebrow when she looked at her cards, then added chips. "This pool could use a little chlorine boys."

Norman set his rabbit's foot on the table next to his chips. "You know that didn't work out so well for the rabbit, don't you?" Ramon asked.

Shane was frowning at her two cards. "Oliver? Are you doing that thing you do to my cards?"

Oliver was studying his own cards and smiling.

Ramon folded his cards and tossed them into the center. "I have folded more hands than an undertaker tonight. Anyone ready for kombucha? I have made my favorite. I call it the Scooby Doo."

Rita was looking puzzled and Norman leaned over and whispered, "Because it's a mystery and probably dangerous."

"Speaking of praying," Oliver finally said. "How do you get fifteen nice old ladies to use bad language at church?"

"Yell Bingo," Joe said. "That's an old one."

"Ok then," Rita said. "What do you call a poker player with half a brain?"

"A gifted FedEx employee," Joe groaned. "Heard that one before too."

"Oh Shane!" Rita blurted. "Speaking of half a brain, Lester Kimsicle stopped in last week and wanted to know if you were back from D.C. yet."

"I know," Shane said. "I ran into the dear in the hallway."

"Grrragh - ." It was not a gentleman's sound, but Oliver made it anyway. "And?"

Shane tossed chips into the center of the table. "Raise," she said. "I told him that I was going steady and no longer free to date," she said beaming at Oliver.

"Maybe Lester would enjoy playing poker?" Ramon asked, bringing a tray of drinks.

"No, no," Norman said. "Even his poker face is dull."

Tiny flashes of lightning were passing between Shane and Oliver again, and Joe sat watching with amusement. He leaned over and whispered. "Something has changed and when I say it's tangible, I mean it's like a force of nature."

"I kissed her," Oliver whispered back. "More than once."

The look on Joe's face was pure approval. "How was it?" still whispering.

"Some there be that shadows kiss; such have but a shadow's bliss," Oliver quoted.

"That's Oliver-Speak," Shane mock whispered. "It means he kissed me and he liked it."

"That good huh?" Joe asked.

"To paraphrase the Bard, "I can express no kinder sign of love, than that gentle kiss."" Oliver sighed.

"Love?" Joe said loudly and blinked.

All conversation stopped, the sound of chips clicking together ceased, from Rita to Norman and then Ramon, the word "Love" was repeated all the way around the table.

"Oliver," Joe said. "You are as red as the King of Hearts."

"Love," Shane said, blue eyes laughing. "It will take him another six months to say it in English, but for now, I will accept Oliver-Speak. And bet on it."

Papa Joe was right, Oliver was as red as the King of Hearts, and laughter filled every corner of the Mailbox Grille.


	4. Chapter 4

**Home |**

Squinting against wind driven daggers of snow, Oliver O'Toole stepped to the curb outside Denver International Airport and raised one arm. Even before the arm had moved, a taxi had seen him and steered to his aid, stopping so that the passenger door was just one step away from the Postable. The storm forecast by the Weather Service had arrived, sweeping down out of the mountains and battering Denver with fury. Snow came in horizontal sheets, transformed into wind driven skeins of needles hurled at storefronts, vehicles and pedestrians alike. Mother Nature was in a mood and Man was in her way.

After giving the cabbie the address, Oliver settled back and let exhaustion claim his limbs. Three days of hearings to reach a verdict obvious in the first three minutes had taken its toll. Exhaustion born from much deeper than muscles buoyed a longing that he found delight in.

Home. The word itself brought a sweetness that his soul had craved for so long.

"You look worn out, my friend," the cabbie said.

Oliver jerked his head up and blinked his eyes open. The face staring at him in the rearview mirror was a stranger, but the voice had sounded like Jordan Marley. Something in the man's eyes told him that yes, he was looking at a friend.

"Yes," he said. "Weary. Deep weary."

The man's face was not that of Marley, but the smile offered was. "Home is where your treasure is," he said and offered the smile again. Oliver was going to offer an appropriate Christmas-ish response to the proverb, but it slipped away as the warmth of the cab lulled his senses. "It's called a micro-nap," Marley said.

"What?" Oliver asked, blinking his eyes open.

"We're here," the cabbie said. "You're home, Oliver."

Oliver blinked again and stared out the side window. It was true, the cab had stopped in front of Oliver's house. How quickly the drive had passed. Weariness forgotten, he paid the driver and hurried along the walk to the porch, and unlocked the front door. As he pushed the door closed against the buffeting wind, the sound of his wife's padded slippers rushing towards him brought a grin to his lips and he turned and opened his arms wide.

Home welcomed him as Shane filled the embrace and claimed him as her own once more. For many minutes the two stood doing nothing except 'being' with each other. His hands moved across her back, massaging gently. "Home," he whispered.

"Home," she answered. "Wine or hot chocolate?"

"Is the gas fireplace lit?"

"Of course."  
"Then wine it is."

She took his briefcase, dropped it beside the door, then took his overcoat from behind and slipped it off his shoulders and left it on its hook. Taking his hand in hers, she led him to the living room, then slipped an ottoman under his feet. "Be right back." She returned with two glasses of red wine, and settled down beside him, snuggling under his arm.

Oliver exhaled slowly, watching the flickering light of the fireplace and letting muscles relax as the joy of having Shane beside him refilled a reservoir of peace that had been emptied over the last few days. With one hand, she curled and uncurled her fingers in his palm, kneading and needing in a persistent rhythm. He could feel her watching his face and smiled.

"Better?" she asked finally.

"Am now."

"Is it over?"

"Yes."

"And Steve?"

"Suspended without pay for six months and ordered to never show his face in Denver again."

"Too bad. He is a very good agent."

Oliver sighed and sipped wine, unwilling to step into the same old debate. "In this present environment of "Me-too", his fate was sealed the moment Becky reported his actions. You and I both know that."

"Yes," she agreed.

"Becky says "hi" by the way."

"I'll call her tomorrow. Was the verdict unanimous?"

"Yes, it was. The man misused his authority and abused his position to manipulate you into a romantic situation. Emotionally kidnapping you proved the actions of an immature teenager, not a seasoned agent who should know better. He got what he had coming."

"Were you glad?"

"I was glad when it was over. Did I wish ill on Mr. Marek? No."

"Oliver, I closed that chapter long ago, you know that. Right?"

"Of course. And now I have closed it too."

"Time for jammies and a snuggle?"

Oliver laughed. His answer was one simple word. "Home."


	5. Chapter 5

The engine of Oliver's Jaguar had been still for several minutes and was now beginning to 'tink-tink-tink' as it cooled. Oliver sat quietly, watching Shane fidget nervously. "Are you alright? You've been acting strangely all morning." The meeting with Fields, Fatberg, Horner and Dunn had been both short and cordial. Oliver had signed, and then collected copies of the papers of probate for the unfinished estate of Joseph Lindley O'Toole, and promised to deliver the Whitman Collection to Allison Reynolds the next day. Which was why the Jaguar was parked outside a bookshop called Parchment & Leather.

Shane looked out the passenger window at the entrance, chewing anxiously at the corner of her mouth. Part of her angst was guilt for judging the owner of the bookstore, someone she had never met. The rest was fear. She hadn't shown Oliver the picture she'd found of Allison Reynolds – a green eyed, black haired beauty – out of a sense of - she didn't know for sure. She refused to put a name to what she was feeling, although she was certain jealousy was a big part of it. She had never considered the possibility of having to battle for Oliver's affections, but now that she feared she would have to, she was feeling insecure. It wasn't the woman's beauty that worried her - exactly - it was her degree in Comparative Literature and a shop filled with books. The Postable she claimed as her own would be beside himself, and that a battle she could not win.

"I'm fine," she said, refusing to look him in the eye. Then her jaw dropped and she gaped at the windshield. Walking towards the shop was Allison Reynolds and the picture Shane had found did not do the young woman justice. In a word, gorgeous. "Oh God," Shane mumbled.

"Are you praying Shane?" Oliver asked.

"Yes," she smiled. "Sort of. Shall we?" she nodded at the shop entrance. Before she could move, one of the scriptures Oliver had shared with her drifted through her mind like a dandelion seed that wasn't finished flying. "All things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose." "Please protect my purpose," she said silently.

Oliver removed a small cargo dolly from the trunk of his car, then he and Shane carefully set the wooden crate containing the Whitman Books Collection onto the dolly. "Thank you, Ms McInerney. After so many decades, I'm sure these books will be glad to be home."

Shane held the door for Oliver as he pushed the dolly into Parchment & Leather. The reason for the name was quickly apparent and Shane smiled in spite of herself, taking a deep breath. The shop was filled with the aroma of parchment coupled with the luxurious smell of old leather book bindings.

"Invigorating, isn't it?" a musical voice said from behind her. When Shane turned, she was face to face with Allison Reynolds. "H – hello," Shane said, hoping her smile didn't look as forced as it felt.

"Oh!" Oliver said, surprise audible in his voice, making Shane flinch. "You must be Allison Reynolds. I am Oliver O'Toole of the United States Postal Service and this my – colleague Shane McInerney."

Shane took a good look at Oliver's face when the two shook hands and was relieved to see that he wasn't drooling and his smile seemed genuine. Then she gave him a second look, wondering what title he had almost given his 'colleague'? A question that she would be asking him later.

"Did you say US Postal Service and Shane McInerney?" Allison gasped, and then looked at the blonde as if seeing a ghost.

"Yes," Shane said, extending her hand and was surprise when Allison took it and then clasped it with both of hers, left hand on top as if they had known each other for a very long time.

"Ha," Shane laughed aloud in spite of herself. "That is a beautiful diamond," she gushed as fear, jealousy and whatever else had been stewing inside drained away. She felt Oliver's hand rest softly on her shoulder and said a quiet thank you.

Allison leaned close, girl to girl style, and laughed. "My husband works in jewelry and has an inside track to beauties like this."

"How – how long have you been married?" The bio she had read said nothing about being married.

"Two years. We were told the first year would be the best, but so far I have to say the second is pretty good." She looked at Shane and Oliver as they stood side by side and then grinned knowingly. "You'll see, soon enough," she said, eyes sweeping from Oliver to Shane and back." How may I help you? Is this a delivery? I don't remember ordering anything."

"I wonder if you might have some place where we might sit and talk for a few minutes." Oliver asked.

"Yes, this way. I just started coffee."

Shane sat listening contentedly as Oliver began with the very old and badly soiled envelope, telling her the story that had led them to her. He spread out the papers of probate and the last will and testament of Joseph Lindley O'Toole, then let her read the letter the man had written to Fanny Price, which called for a box of tissues. The wooden crate was opened so she could see the collection of Whitman Frist Editions, hold them in her hands and sniff the pages.

"Joseph Lindley O'Toole was my Great Grandfather and a poet laureate that built the house I live in. I have read the books, enjoyed them for years. This was on the same bookshelf where Whitman sat for all of those years." He handed her the old, sepia-tone photograph of a young woman. On the back was written, 'Fanny Price'. "He was her mentor and encouraged her to accomplish great things."

"She was named for the heroine in Mansfield Park, Jane Austen."

Oliver smiled. "Yes, I recognized the name when I first heard it."

"I've heard the story my whole life, about what a wonderful man your Great Grandfather was. He saved her life you know. But these are a treasure and I don't think - ."

"Stop," Oliver said. "These are a gift that Joseph Lindley O'Toole intended for your family to have. This gift has found its way to you. Please honor my Great Grandfather by accepting them." When Allison rushed forward and gave Oliver a hug, Shane gasped, then changed it to a smile.

But when Allison turned around, she looked sad. "By an odd twist of providence, I have something for you, Shane McInerney," Allison said. "Or should I say, 'Crackers'?"

"Oh," Oliver said, gripping Shane's shoulders.

"W – what did you say?" she asked, blinking and backing away and into Oliver.

Allison nodded at the reaction, looking mournful. "I am half afraid of what this might mean for you, but it is what it is. If you would follow me please."

The raven haired shop owner led Shane to the front and stopped at the Children's Section. There was an old, worn out book resting against a small pedestal, two of its corners were dog-eared, and its pages had been worn by countless human touches. The book had obviously been well used.

"You sell used books?" Shane asked.

"No. That is – a very special book that belongs to you." Allison wiped at a tear, took the book off the shelf and handed it to Shane.

Daddy's Girl, written by Garrison Keillor and illustrated by Robin Preiss Glasser. Shane almost dropped the book as if it were too hot to handle. When she opened the cover, she sobbed sharply and stumbled back into Oliver again.

"It's ok. I've got you," he whispered, reading the inscription over her shoulder. "To Crackers, all the love I stole from you. Daddy."

"He never bought the book," Allison said. "But he stood by that shelf so many times reading it that after a while we both joked that he had visiting rights to it. The two of us spent hours talking over coffee. When he got sick, I put the book on display. The hand prints and worn edges are the product of regret and wishful thinking. That is not his handwriting, it's mine, but I know that he would approve. I visited him in the hospital on the day he died." Allison broke and green eyes suddenly released a flood of tears. "Don't kid yourself Shane McInerney. He loved you."

Shane had become a statue clutching a book to her chest, unfeeling stone that walked, sat in the car when Oliver opened the door, but showed no emotion. Oliver started driving, knowing what was coming and preparing for it. When Shane started moaning loudly, he braked quickly and steered the car into a parking space, then pushed his seat as far back as it would go. She was already moving, climbing into his lap, keening like an animal mortally wounded. When he wrapped his arms around her, the sobs began, gut wrenching wails that stabbed at his soul, the piteous cries of a freshly broken heart. At one point nearly an hour later, a police officer walked up to the window of the Jaguar and looked inside. Seeing a couple wrapped in grief, rocking back and forth in each other's arms he muttered a soft 'Amen' and walked away.

Oliver had no idea how long they had sat there, but the sun was low and street lights were coming on. Finally, Shane sat up, eyes red and puffy, and gave him that look, the one that said, "I wish I could tell you how much I love you". As an answer, he leaned forward and gently kissed her eyelids.

"I am done, convinced," she said.

"Of what?"

"I don't care if it is nuts, but I believe that God moves and I love your divine delivery theory."


	6. Chapter 6

THE GIFT |

The tree had been straightened, ornaments and garland rehung with care, and tussled branches carefully primped back into place. Brightly wrapped presents, some repaired with tape, reflected the twinkling lights of celebration. Holiday safe and secure once more, Oliver turned off the living room lights and knelt in front of the couch.

Shane was asleep, a persistent wad of drool seeping out of the corner of her mouth. Using a tissue, he carefully removed it, then leaned down and kissed her softly. Without waking, she responded, returning the kiss and then closing her mouth.

In Shane's arms was the pride and joy of Oliver O'Toole, three-year-old Boo, as blonde as her mother and also fast asleep. In Boo's arms was the culprit of an almost Christmas disaster and pride and joy of Boo.

Oreo was part Bombay and part Siamese, which gave her sleek black fur and startling blue eyes. She had been named by Boo who took one look at the single white stripe that crossed the cat's head and ended between its eyes and proclaimed to her parents that her name was Oreo. Those startling blue eyes were watching Oliver suspiciously, the pall of guilt still hanging heavy over the cat's head.

Cats in Christmas Trees was not new, but it was the first time it had happened to Oliver. Reaching slowly, Oliver gently touched the cat's head just above the eyes. She blinked then stared back up at him and started to purr.

"You have a redeemer, Oreo, and her name is Boo." Then he covered his mouth to silence a laugh and got to his feet. After pouring a glass of Merlot, he settled into his favorite chair and watched as the flickering light of the gas fireplace painted warm patterns across the two he loved most in the world.

"You look content, Oliver," Jordan Marley said as he stepped out of the Christmas Tree and into the room. The angel smiled. "So very content. I am sent to ask you what you want for Christmas?"

Without hesitating to think, Oliver waved a hand at Shane and Boo, and even included the outlaw Oreo. "Much, much more of this," he said and then wiped at the corner of one eye.

"Given," Marley said. "It's been a good eve for you then?"

Oliver chuckled softly. "Yes. The cat got into the tree and almost destroyed it. But taught me a lesson at the same time."

"How so?"

"Boo stopped me when I picked up the cat, crying because Oreo doesn't deserve the kitty jail called Laundry Room. She took the cat from me and sheltered the creature in her own arms." The angel laughed. "The defiant redeemer proclaimed that Oreo must be furgiven."

Jordan Marley tipped his head to one side. "What did you say?"

"I said that Oreo was bad and didn't deserve forgiveness. Boo's response told me so much. I did not know that ones so small could be so wise." Oliver wiped at his eye again.

"What did she say?"

"She said that it was true, Oreo did not deserve furgiveness but that she is loved, so I had to, just had to."

"That would explain the laughter I heard earlier."

"What?"

Marley shook his head. "Just something that happened in heaven before I left. Tell the truth, Oliver, you melted didn't?"

"Into a puddle at the feet of the three-year-old. Didn't stand a chance. Such a gift."


	7. Chapter 7

**ASTA |**

 **1 |**

 _(Stir is not a happy place to wait. Don't get me wrong, it's not like Shawshank where someone cries when the lights are turned off, although some of the puppies do whine piteously. It isn't the insane noise during the day, or the smell of dank cement floors. It's the chain link fencing that restricts the genetic urge to run. This is life in a pound.)_

 _(I have a short attention span, unless you're a squirrel in which case I can follow for hours, so stir is my entire life now. There is no running free, there is only one boring moment following another in an endless Kevorkian sort of loop. (Sorry, sort of nodded off there for a second.) There are times in stir when I would give up part of my tail just for the chance to pee in a flowerbed. That is saying something because I have a fabulous tail. But I am an optimist, most dogs are. K-9s understand the divine delivery theory, the inclusion of providence with coincidence and the unmistakable guiding hand of the Only Alpha. So, I have faith that I will be out of here soon. At least before the Kevorkian clause takes effect.)_

 _(My name is Spade, but the connotations of that word are distressing, so I go by Samantha, Sam for short.)_

 **2 |**

 _(I smelled the couple even before they opened the door, which is usually the case. A dog's nose is hardwired for smell, with as many as 200 times the number of olfactory receptors as humans. Humans are naïve about the way things are. They hear things like, "the smell of fear" and don't realize that it's just one page of a very thick book about the way things smell.)_

 _(Emotions are pure and most smell nice, like flowers. Feelings like fear, on the other paw, often carry scents you don't even want to know about, scents never meant to be released. For example, lust smells like five day old road kill on a west Texas highway. Rage is enough to make a skunk smell like gardenias by comparison. Evil? Please, you don't even want to know. Evil has its own aroma and worse, it attracts itself. When you wake in the middle of the night and every dog in your neighborhood is barking and going nuts, that means evil is in your hood. Humans don't smell it, but dogs do. Cats do too but they don't care.)_

 _(Like I said, I smelled the couple even before they opened the door, so I got to my feet. They smelled good, like peace, compassion, with a fragrant unity that comes when two spirits agree. I took a deep breath, enjoying the other scent, the wonderful aroma of new love, that was the strongest of all. Plus the one I always look for, the sweet smelling aroma of prayer. The ones who pray are prized above all others and it was on them both.)_

 _(The man in the three piece suit was as skittish as a cat in a room full of rockers and looked unwilling to touch anything. Worse, he had his nose working overtime trying to identify odors. Please. It's a kennel and the smells are inglorious. Besides, there was nothing in this part of the building to hurt him. Two rooms to the left, however, is a place that reeks of cyanide, the Kevorkian effect, and he does not want to go there. On the good side, he shaves regularly, uses aftershave sparingly and smells of gentleness. I could get along with that one despite his apprehension. Whoa! What was that? He shrank back when the Labrador on the other side of the aisle tried to lick through the gate. Note to self, he does not like to be licked.)_

 _(The blonde now, this one wears the bouquet of the lily. She is an easy mark, I could see it immediately. Baby blues, tender expression. I can see why the man is crazy about her. What most humans don't know about the sad puppy look with the big eyes is that a well-practiced dog can do it at will. I am well-practiced, and the blonde eats it up. Perfect, she called for the waiting guard, essentially a Sanitätsdienstgrade, but who am I to judge, I am a German Shepherd after all. All I need is the door open and a chance to audition. A puppy would go for exuberance and lots of happy jumping. Puppies are idjots. I will show her my thoughtful, philosophical side.)_

"Look how she cocks her head to the side. She is studying me. I think she likes me," Shane said.

 _(That was just the lure, now to set the hook by doing it the other way.)_

"Oh Oliver, she did it again."

 _(Oliver? Not impressed by the name, but it does explain the stiff suit and Oxfords in a dog pound.)_

"Shane, have you thought this through?" Oliver asked. "You're sure you want a dog?"

"Absolutely. She can guard the swing while I'm at work and bite Steve if he shows up."

 _(Huhm? Odd smell there when she said the name Steve. The unmistakable aroma of distrust connected to that person. Wait! What? OH JOY! The one called Shane is doing the finger massage along the back of my head and along my back. OH GOD, now the neck. Have to fight the urge to do the thumping foot thing, it would so embarrassing to do that at this point. Puppies do that. Oh thank you Lord, she stopped for now, but I am convinced that she is the one for me.)_

Oliver was watching the interplay between Shane and the dog, watching their eyes search each other. He chuffed, knowing the decision had been made without him. "So what are you going to call her?"

"I like the name Asta."

"Not bad. Girl's name, Old Norse, means "star like." Also short for Anastasia, which is Greek for "resurrection."

 _(Asta? Look lady, the name is Samantha, Samantha Spade.)_

"Thank you Oliver. Now can you fill out the paperwork while I lead her out of this dungeon?"

 _(Lady! The name is – . Wait! What? Out? That means away from Kevorkian. Ok. Asta it is. For now, but we will discuss this at some point.)_

 **3 |**

 _(The old hinges on the door squeaked sharply and I winced. A dogs hearing is also more acute than a humans. I wonder if they can fix that. Four steps later I froze as a barrage of odors hit like a runaway FedEx van. Wow. This place they call The DLO is a riot. There are a thousand trails that lead here and I don't mean the letters and parcels. Something else, mysterious, a rapport from a dozen other lands far away with oceans in between. I know what it is, but it is very odd to find a communion of love and acceptance in a place like this. Every pack has a unique scent and the scent this pack called Postables was giving off was telling me was that this was a den for a pack much, much larger than the humans who work here. This was a family.)_

"Who is the beauty?" Rita asked.

Shane led Asta with a gentle hand and stopped where the brunette was working. "This is Asta. She is going to be my new roommate."

"Remember, if she makes a mess in here, you are the one cleaning it up," Oliver said with a sidelong look.

 _(Mess? Seriously? I looked at Oliver's Oxford Wingtips and for a moment actually considered peeing on them. But reason won out and I stood quietly as the one called Rita carefully examined by head, neck and back with her fingers.)_

"Extremely good muscle tone for a rescue," she said.

 _(I like this one. Exceptionally good taste in dogs and no guile. She and I understand each other. The banging of another door brought my head around and I stared with eyes, ears and nose at the newcomer. Every muscle in my body tensed as the faint whiff of something familiar, something – DANGER! DANGER!)_

Norman arrived, pushing a wheeled basket of lost, misdirected, and seriously abused mail. "Well hello," he said to the dog pointed in his direction. "Who are you?"

"Norman, this is Asta," Shane said, and then recoiled in horror as the dog lunged at Norman.

 _(DANGER HUMAN! I moved before the Shane person could stop me, rushing to put myself between Rita and basket. At the same time I continued warning the humans of the danger by using my serious bark.)_

Norman stepped aside and Rita moved to take control of the basket but was suddenly blocked by an agitated dog.

Norman put himself between Rita and the dog and then the two of them slowly backed away as Asta first stepped toward them, barking furiously, and then would move back and wait silently. If they moved toward the basket, Asta let them know that it was not allowed.

 _(DANGER! Don't you understand? This is danger. If you care for your friends you need to leave this room. They don't understand. Apparently the best I was going to do was to block their approach, because these four are not trained to understand what I was warning them about. NO! I barked again as the one they call Norman reached for the basket.)_

"Norman, don't you have a cousin who trains dogs?"

"Yup. But he doesn't live here. Why is she so mad?"

"I know he doesn't live here but we could use his advice. I don't think she's mad, Norman. If she was, she wouldn't be silent until I do this." Shane reached for the basket and Asta moved to stop her, barking furiously. "There is something causing this."

Rita, Shane and Oliver stood in a circle of silent confusion as Norman went to his phone and called his cousin. "Huh," he said several times after explaining the situation. "Really. And we should do what? Ok." He hung up. "Uhm," he was nervously fidgeting his fingers together. "Marco says that it sounds like the dog has had some serious training and if she is blocking us from that basket, then there is something dangerous in there and she is trying to warn us away."

"Norman, where did the basket come from?" Rita asked.

"Satellite office out by the airport. They found it behind that small warehouse they have. Old stuff, been out in the weather for a long time. No one knows how long it's been there, more than a decade at least."

"What are we supposed to do?" Oliver asked.

"Norman, Rita, come over this way, away from the basket. Oliver, please join me." Then Shane got down on one knee and held out her hands to Asta, waiting.

 _(Yeah, yeah, I know what you want, just stay away from this thing.)_

Silently, the dog moved and sat in front of Shane, keeping the basket behind her and turning frequently to look back.

"Oliver. It's time to call Lester."

Oliver grinned from ear to ear. "Excellent idea. He is Postal Security after all."

 _(When the one called Kimsicle arrived, he took one look at Shane and Oliver standing hand in hand and deflated like a punctured balloon. I would have laughed out loud if I had vocal cords to do that. I knew the type, thinks in terms of alpha, but in reality, not so much. But I will give credit where it is due. After being told what the situation was, he called someone who arrived almost immediately wearing a suit I am well familiar with, called a Hazmat. At last, someone who understood as much as I did as soon as I smelled the chemical and knew what to do with it. I laid down at Shane's feet, my job was done.)_

"What did they find?" Oliver asked Lester when the Security agent returned half an hour later.

 _(I watched them enter the room and followed Lester with my eyes, but didn't get up. I was content to lay next to Shane's work station and receive the frequent finger massages between my ears. What can I say, it's pleasant and I won't apologize for liking it.)_

"There was an envelope near the bottom that was laced with arsenic trioxide and ricin. The long term exposure to the elements had diluted the chemicals and it probably would not have been fatal if you had touched it, but you would have been very sick for a very long time. That dog saved you all."

 _(I would do a mic-drop, but don't have a microphone. Or a hand. So – .)_

Norman knelt next to Asta and held out an empty hand. The dog sat up and sniffed. "Hello, I am Norman Dorman. You did a very good job earlier and I would like to reward you. I have a cousin who is a baker and she sends me a tin of homemade cookies from time to time. This batch is oatmeal raisin. Enjoy."

 _(Norman's cousin can bake me cookies anytime she wants. First, the cookie was large, more than a single bite. Second, chewy, gooey and wonderful. I carefully licked his hand as a heartfelt thank you. This Norman is one of the noble ones. In Latin, "frater cordis", brother of the heart. At birth, all dogs know that their life is forfeit for the sake of humans. That is why we choose a human so carefully when given the opportunity. Among humans there are some who share our noble credo. Norman is one of those, he is royalty. I have decided that I like this DLO even if I have no clue what they actually do here.)_

"Norman, Rita, Shane, please lead Asta this way," Oliver said. "I think that it is a very good time to utilize the extraordinary powers of discretion granted to Postables. So it is that as of this date, Asta is now an honorary K-9 Postable."

 _(Yeah, ok, just pay me with cookies. Oh, and finger massage my neck, thank you.)_

 **4 |**

 _(Oliver is as double-minded as a cat and that no compliment because I have listened to cats that made more sense. Little history humans are ignorant of, the two muse of theater, Thalia, and Melpomene, came about simply because Homer had a kitten when he started writing the Iliad, a kitten that matured by the time he finished the Odyssey. Comedy and drama, the two minds of the cat and the equivalence of Oliver. The wall his heart has put up to protect his inside from his outside has never allowed his "kitten-self" to mature. So he is double-minded. The sweet aroma of prayer is all over him so I know there is more than meets the eye. But . . . ? He is just so guarded.)_

"Oliver," Shane whispered. "Look." She indicated Asta, who was watching him intently. He only shrugged.

 _(She thinks I can't hear a whisper? So amusing, so I will let her believe it. I smelled the box before the one called Norman brought it into the DLO. Old, the faint aroma of cellulose, sheathed in metal cans.)_

"What do we have, Norman?" Oliver asked.

The wooden box was small, 22x22x9 inches, Norman turned the sealed crate to show the top. "Address label has been weathered away. We'll have to go in."

"I don't have a letter opener that will do the job on that," Oliver said.

"Right here Norman," Rita said, handing him a Cat's Paw.

"Perfect, thank you Rita."

After two sharp squeaks from protesting nails encrusted with rust, the lip on the narrow side of the crate popped open. "Oh," Norma said, removing six round metal cans. "It's movies, old movies," he said.

Shane picked one up and read the label. "Oh Oliver. These are the Nick and Nora Charles series of films. The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett. The whole series is here. Can we watch these?"

"I believe our duty is to find out who the intended recipient is and deliver them," Oliver said flatly. "Not watch them."

"Nick and Nora were sort of the like the first Postables," Rita suggested. "That sort of mandates that we study them."

"They were detectives," came from Norman.

"They were also married," Shane said softly, rolling her eyes.

 _(Oh, sharp spike in fear pheromone from Oliver. Means he has been thinking about exactly that but hasn't made a decision yet. Shane has thought about it, she would like nothing better. That much is clear from her.)_

"There is nothing in the crate to indicate where the films were meant to go," Norman said.

"Ms McInerney, perhaps you – ," Oliver started.

"On it," came from her work station as her fingers started working furiously at her lap top.

"The Old Town Arvada Theater has been converted into a movie museum," Rita suggested.

"That they have," Shane said, picking up her phone. Ten minutes later, she was laughing. "They are literally beside themselves with excitement and are sending someone over at once. Said they would like to have us as guests of honor at a special showing of the films as soon as they are restored. What say you, Mr. O'Toole? Is it a date?"

 _(I can hear the music in her voice and know she wants much more from Oliver. What I don't know is what is holding him back? As I already said, dogs understand a divine delivery especially when they are standing side by side. So obvious.)_

"What's wrong with Asta?" Oliver asked as the dog moved suddenly to stand next to Shane, staring intently at the door.

 _(That smell. I knew it instantly. The aroma of that name. I could smell the man coming before the door opened, which is usually the case. Then the door opened and I knew him instantly. Untrustworthy with a hint of roadkill on a Texas highway. Not a nice person. Oliver suddenly smelled like a slug stuck to a hot sidewalk, that's the identifier for disgust mixed with jealousy. From Shane came the subtly sweet paprika aroma of righteous anger. She was angered at the smelly name.)_

"Steve Marek," Oliver said flatly.

"Knew it was true!" Shane nearly spit the words. "What is your excuse this time?"

"Ricin," the Agent said. "Every report of ricin in any public arena comes across my desk eventually. When I heard that the report came from the Denver DLO, I had to come and check it out personally, for the protection of a valuable Government asset."

 _(I was watching the man's face, his eyes, and paying particular attention to what his pheromones were saying. They were painting a picture of a serpent hiding in the grass, a serpent with a hidden agenda and the authority to carry it out. He was lying. I do not like this Steve.)_

Shane gasped as Asta moved, pushing against her leg and forcing her to stand closer to Oliver.

 _(Yeah, I planned that.)_

"What? A dog?"

"She is part of the DLO staff now," Oliver said.

 _(When the one called Stink, sorry, my bad, the one called Steve moved toward Shane, I did not hesitate. I moved to block him and was ready to use as much force as necessary. It's what dogs do.)_

"Hey!" Steve exclaimed when confronted by a tense and obviously upset Asta with the hackles of her back raised as a war alert. "Call off the mutt or I'll have it taken out of here and put down."

 _(Funny thing about K-9 canines (love the way that sounds), all you have to do is peel back the lips and show those blades. A good growl is also important. But it has to start low in the throat, let saliva flow back there to add that extra threatening gurgle sound. Humans get the point immediately. The warning was simple, don't look away from me, Stink, or you will bleed today.)_

"Why is that animal acting that way?" Steve demanded.

"Good taste," Oliver suggested flatly.

"Steve," Shane said. "I am not your asset. You should have just let well enough alone but you couldn't. I told you in Washington that my choice was here, not with you. I had a call from Becky this afternoon, warning me that you were on the way." Shane smiled when Steve blinked surprise and took a step back. "You took advantage of a National Security Emergency to further your own interests. That is called Abuse of Authority and the rumblings are not happy ones."

"You can't prove that," Steve offered defiantly.

When Shane laughed, Asta tensed and looked like she might attack. Steve flinched and his face went pale.

"Yes, I can. When you confessed to me that you drafted me onto your team because of your own personal feelings, you implicated yourself in a very damning way. Just so you know, I gave Becky a deposition this afternoon by phone. You are going to face a Federal Review Board. My guess is that your Federal Credentials will be suspended before you even get back to D.C. And I convinced Becky to not cancel your flight because I want you out of here. Now," Shane reached and laid one hand on Asta's fur. The dog never even blinked. "You have a choice, walk away now or I turn this one loose. Justice has a very unique bite, don't you think?"

 _(I was tracking the pheromones from Shane with delight. I understood the ultimatum even if I didn't understand the words. When she lifted her hand from my coat, it was as if she had pushed the "Go" button. Go ahead Stink, move. Then I smelled the approval coming from Oliver, mixed with a tincture of vanilla, and knew it was his show now and not mine. But I kept the teeth exposed just for effect.)_

Steve's face went from pale to angry red and back several times and he opened his mouth to respond.

"Just stop, Marek," Oliver said. Then he turned his back to the agent and pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. "I will do the ceremony the proper way later, but if you say yes, Shane, and slip this on, I think it might be more than appropriate to the moment."

 _(I heard Shane's gasp followed by a very quiet sob, and then she threw her arms around Oliver's neck. Woah. Now there are some powerful pheromones. Happy ones. Good move Oliver. About time.)_

Oliver and Shane faced Steve side by side, then Shane held out her left hand to show the glittering diamond on her ring finger. "Apparently you were out of the country and didn't get the memo, Mr. Marek," Oliver said. "Shane is no longer yours to protect."

 _(The male pheromones in the room were shouting a very clear message and making my head spin. My respect for the one called Oliver went up by leaps and bounds and I wanted to let him know I approved. I suppose I should apologize for what I did, and Shane did have to clean it up, but I peed on the man's shoes. If we had been standing on soil, I would have covered them with the dirt of indignation too. Made my point, proud of it, won't apologize. And then he left with his tail between his legs. That last bit is metaphorical of course. Funny, but metaphorical.)_

 **5 |**

Two nights later, Oliver was working late on reports when his phone rang. Not the great green beast on his desk, the SmartPhone Shane had given him as a gift. He fumbled the process of answering, but was finally rewarded with Shane's voice.

"Oliver, can you come to my place? I feel like something is wrong and Asta is pacing back and forth by the door. Something has her very upset."

Oliver's heart started pounding wildly. "I am on my way," he said. Then fumbled the phone. The lessons Shane had given him were forgotten and he was unable to turn the thing off, so he just left it on the desk.

Ten minutes later, he was reaching for the hasp on Shane's gate and saw her standing next to their porch swing, staring at the side of the house. Then his heart stopped when he saw the silhouette in the darkness behind her, the hand of the silhouette was holding a knife that glinted once in the moonlight. Before he could shout or move or offer any help to the woman he loved, another shadow came out of nowhere, a fast moving blur shaped like a dog.

 _(I am silent death when I want to be. The man who smelled of evil had been well hidden and I am not the pup I used to be. But in the end, it didn't matter. A 110 pound dog moving at 30 miles an hour can put a man on his back in nothing flat. At the moment of impact, I clamped my jaws on his arm and then we both tumbled over the railing of the porch. I felt the knife pierce my chest, going deep and wanted to cry out, but the training took over, locking my jaws forever on the man's arm. I would die now, but the evil that would harm my Shane was not going to escape.)_

 **6 |**

"Ok, coming through," Oliver called as he walked into the living room. Shane was on the couch with the popcorn, the tv was already on the Hallmark Channel. "Make a space," he added as he leaned forward with both arms full of a bandaged Asta and settled her gently on the couch. The dog chuffed once and then licked his hand. Very unlike the old Oliver, he leaned forward and rubbed his face against the furry nose of his new hero. Then he sat next to Shane, one arm around her, and one hand free to feed pieces of popcorn to the dog.

"Her history came in today," Oliver said. "I sent in the tattoo the veterinarian found under her fur and had it traced. Her real name is Samantha and she has been raised as a service dog from puppyhood. Your Asta was part of a K-9 police unit." Oliver stopped and cleared his throat. "Her handler, an officer named Spade was killed in the line of duty. A friend took her but she ran off, then disappeared from the face of the Earth until you found her in that pound. She is a very valuable dog."

"I am not giving her up." Shane insisted.

"Shane, I would not part with her now for the world. Besides, she peed on Steve's shoes."

 _(I am Asta now, short for Anastasia. The resurrection irony amuses me. I am home at last. Itch under the bandage, Oliver scratch please. No. to the right. Ah, perfect. Turns out, Oliver and Shane were my divine delivery.)_


	8. Chapter 8

**The Truth About Cats**

Oreo's eyes slipped open, then searched the room for the presences of humans. There was only one, her charge, Boo with the angelic face, pride and joy of Oliver O'Toole. Gently disengaging herself from the child's arms, she teleported onto the well-padded backrest above the child, her black fur rippling with light.

Jordan Marley turned when she moved, looking back from the kitchen door where he stood watching Oliver and Shane.

Oreo gave the angel a respectful nod, then started licking the back of one paw. Once she had both eyebrows just the way she liked them – cats are proud and won't apologize for it – she struck a very nice sitting pose and turned to look at Reader.

 _I just gave you two clues about cats that most humans are not aware._ _First, cats teleport, it is a gift we are born with. Now think about some of the odd places you might have found your cat, and you'll understand. If you see us trying to get away from something, all four legs working furiously but not going anywhere, it's, well, let me explain it this way. Sometimes when we are startled, the porter glitches and we port to and from the same spot several times in the span of a second. What you see is the comic side effect, legs churning, etc. Now that you know, just watch, you'll see it. Nuff' said._

 _Another gift cats have is our eyes. We see so much more than humans do. Humans are surrounded by an unseen world and most are completely clueless about it. The angel Jordan is a good example of the good help available. But not all of what you don't see is good. There are the others. If you see a cat up on its hind legs and swatting madly at empty air, chances are there is something in your home you don't want there. Sometimes, it could also be momentary dementia. It happens mostly with kittens._

 _Thing is, God made a finite number of angels that are limited because they can only be in one place at a time. Which is why His Wisdom also made cats. There are lots of us. Mostly we are sent to watch the little ones like Boo, to protect and fight for when necessary. Jordan is not concerned about little Boo at the moment because he knows that I am on the job watching over her._

 _A third gift that cats have is completely unknown to humans and that because of a misunderstanding very long ago in Rome. Some overthinking human eager to explain the wiles and sometimes capricious nature of love, introduced the notion that "Cupid" was born of mythology and loosed upon the world as a naked kid with a boy and arrow. Ludicrous. It is actually cats who play the role of Cupid. Because of our gift of seeing the unseen, we are well able to bring perfectly matched strangers together and impart happiness to both. Although some literature paints Cupid as careless, it is not true. Admittedly, there have been mistakes, reference momentary dementia above. As much as cats do their best, love can be confusing._

 _If you are not familiar with Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, you should be. It illustrates how love can be unreasonable. Example, "Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays."_

 _In defense of love, the character's name is "Bottom" so you can't help but smile. See what I did there? Bottom? But? Smile? Ok, for a human that's probably over the top. Little Boo gets it, to her the name Bottom is funny. A child's highly developed sense of humor is much like a cat's, but then our sense of hygiene is also similar. Point is, reason and love keep company together when handled correctly._

 _You have seen an example of love handled correctly. My_ _work can be seen in the chronicles of Signed Sealed Delivered, you just didn't notice. Note the episode with the coffee cart. What you probably didn't see was the woman in the background who is stepping into line and would have been ahead of Shane. But that stranger was suddenly diverted by a cat winding around her legs, making her hesitate. Shane steps in line behind Oliver, setting the stage for love to begin. I am that cat who put them together. Some of my best work._

 _So, have you ever known a cat who was not mysterious? I would laugh, but it really does not sound pleasant. That's a tiny glimpse into the life of a cat. If you have a hard time accepting a cat as Cupid, then you really don't want to know what the tooth fairy really is. That's just ugly! Cheese Whiz!_

Oreo looked down, licked the back of another paw, and started cleaning the backs of her ears.

 _Oh, one more thing while you're here. Happy Valentine's Day._


	9. Chapter 9

**Darya |**

"Am I postal?" Boo asked, blonde ponytail flipping from side to side as her head snapped around to stare at dad.

Rita laughed without breaking her rhythm where she was sorting a basket marked "Lost – Undeliverable".

It was a bring your daughter to work day and Oliver was having a ball. "The word is "Postable"," he corrected.

Five year old Boo, who rarely missed anything, noticed Rita's shoulders shaking with laughter. "I'm uncribbigable," she stated proudly, drawing a laugh from both Rita and Oliver.

"She loves words as much as you do, Oliver."

"Some of them before they are finished cooking. Come on, Little One. Let's go check to see if there are any OSIPs."

"What's osips?" she asked.

"Over Seas Insufficient Postage. Hold my hand."

"Yes Daddy."

The two had been gone for only a minute when Norman arrived, pushing a large and heavy basket loaded above the rim.

"Norman? What – what? What are you doing?"

He shrugged, giving her the look of a man who had given up trying to understand what was happening. "Where else was I going to take this?" He sounded frustrated. "This was left at the satellite office out at Foxfield. They didn't know how to handle – this either."

"Maybe Oliver will know."

"Rita, there is no precedent for this. It's impossible."

"Oliver always thinks of something."

Right on cue, the swinging doors banged open and Oliver returned, holding Boo's hand and balancing a large tray of envelopes with the other. Five steps into the DLO he stopped short and stared. "Wha – wha – what?" He tried but couldn't get the question out.

Boo was grinning from ear to ear. "I want a ride in the basket too," she said. "Can I?"

"Foxfield didn't know what to do and I couldn't just leave this there," Norman said. "It gets cold at night in their warehouse."

Rita stood by Norman's side, staring at the overloaded basket and wringing her hands. "Oh my," she sighed.

"There isn't any – I mean – I have no idea what to do with this," Oliver said.

"Daddy?" Boo tugged on his hand.

Oliver had to do some fancy footwork to keep the tray balanced and upright until he could set it on a countertop. But he managed. "What Little One?"

"Why don't you just axe her what to do?"

Oliver tipped his head to one side, baffled by the simplicity of the child's question. "Well ok," he said, and walked up to the basket of "Lost – Undeliverable". "Hello?" he said.

"Da," the woman sitting in the basket answered with a smile.

"Who – uh, who are you?" he asked.

"Am Darya, Darya Vashilev. Who are you?"

"I am Oliver O'Toole," he said. "Very nice to meet you."

"Da."

"Uhm," Oliver was struggling. "Why did Foxfield put you in that basket."

"Vat means undeliverable?"

"It means the Post Office doesn't know what to do with you."

"Da. Have no label," she said matter-of-factly. "USPSs must have label to deliver." She shrugged. "What dey say."

"Please," Oliver said, holding out a hand. "Let me help you out of that basket." She did and he pushed a stool towards her.

"Bolshoe spasibo," she said and exhaled a long breath. "Feel like boat in basket, be sick."

"Oh, don't be sick," Boo said and ran to the woman's side and took her hand. "Just hold my hand and you'll be fine."

"Darya, I don't understand why the Post Office would put you in a basket."

The woman nodded. "Am mail order bride. Was sent to America but lost label."

"But Darya, you can't mail yourself."

"But daddy, she can or she wouldn't be here?"

Norman laughed out loud. "She's got you there, Oliver."

"Da. Yust need label to finish journied."

Oliver was running his fingers through his hair and looking stressed. "That's his axasprated look," Boo said proudly. Darya, Rita and Norman all laughed. "Mommy does that to him all the time."

Oliver O'Toole was capable of brilliant ideas when put into a situation where one was needed. One was needed. "Norman, go to the label machine and enter what I tell you. Darya, you are a mail order bride?"

"Da."

"Who ordered you?"

"Willy Days from Colorado Springs, USA. He is rodeo clown who needs wife."

"Norman? Mark that PAID, would you?"

"And done," the Postable said. He cut the label free and handed it to Oliver.

"Darya?"

"Da."

"Where was the label when you started your journey?"

"Here," she said. "On arm."

"Hold out your arm please," Oliver said, then affixed the label. "There we go," he said. "Norman, please escort Ms Vashilev to shipping and send her on her way to Colorado Springs."

"Spasibo, Misters O'Toole."

"Bye bye," Boo called as Norman and the mail order bride disappeared back out the door.

"Colorado Springs," Rita laughed. "Go figure."


End file.
